Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Yo,” Coal called, making me pause, hand on the knob.
“What?”
“You didn’t ask me who he’s after.”
Turning, I looked at him, a twisting sort of dread starting in my gut.
“Who’s he after?”
“Who’ll hurt you the most,” Coal said.
“That could be—“ I started to object. The sentence trailed off, though, before Coal even interrupted me.
“Your wife.”
I never ran so fast in my entire motherfucking life.
Dav, picking up on the seriousness, abandoned Coal strapped to his chair, running off after me as I made my way toward the apartment building.
Where Lore would be sitting, unaware.
I should have said something.
Told her shit was dangerous.
I couldn’t wait for the elevator, tearing up the steps two at a time instead, my heart a bass beat in my chest as the cold hand of fear tightened around my throat.
“Lore!” I called, rushing onto the floor.
And there, like a nightmare, was Elian.
Slumped on the ground.
A pool of blood forming around him.
Conscious, but just barely.
“Fuck. Fuck!”
“Mi… Michael,” Elian coughed out, close to blacking out.
“Oh, fuck,” Dav said, rushing over toward Elian, pressing his broken hand into Elian’s wound as he reached for his phone with the other hand.
I plugged the number into the keypad, doing something I wasn’t sure I’d ever fucking done before.
Praying.
She had to be okay.
Inside.
Scared.
Even hiding.
But okay.
Safe.
“Lore!” I yelled the second the door flew open.
I rushed inside, hoping to see her rushing out, to feel her throw her arms around me.
Until my gaze slid to the kitchen.
Finding a bunch of food on the island, some partially prepared meal set there.
But, much more damning than that, was an open can of crushed tomatoes dropped on the ground, the contents splashed across the floor.
I knew right then that she was gone.
He’d taken her from me.
And I had to fucking get her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lore
I’d been planning the meal since I woke up. For once, not upset at being alone. Renzo had warned me he’d be gone early. After holding me all night.
“Elian, can we do another order on your phone?” I asked. “And I’ll give you the cash,” I added, making a mental note to ask Renzo how I could go about buying things online or via apps when he got home.
“You cooking again?”
“Yeah.”
“On one condition then,” he said.
“Sure,” I agreed, having a feeling I knew where this was going.
“I get a plate.”
“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes at him.
After that, I offered him my list, then went about finding the right pots and pans, setting the table ahead of time, before getting myself showered and dressed before helping Elian bring in the groceries, and finally rolling up my sleeves and getting to it.
And, this time, there were memories of my mom, of course. Of her reminding me to always measure spices by the heart, to always remember to salt the pasta water, to take my time and enjoy the process.
But instead of sorrow, what I felt was gratitude. That I’d gotten the chance to learn these things at her side. And, because of that, I could one day do the same for my children.
I couldn’t tell you what time it was when I’d heard a popping noise in the hallway, or the strange thud. I’d been too lost in the idea of sitting across a table from Renzo again, from having more conversations like the one we’d had the night before. And, then maybe… not talking for a while afterward.
I’d tensed at the odd interruption, but when I’d heard the beep of the code being punched into the keypad, I felt my shoulders relax, imagining it was either Elian or Renzo trying to bring something inside.
I didn’t even think anything was amiss when it was neither of those men who moved into the apartment.
I knew this man too.
I’d met him at the one party I’d gone down to.
He’d been lurking around the pool table while I talked to one of the younger, more extroverted, men.
He had a more normal name, that much I remembered, even though that night was pretty vodka-soaked and wavy.
Christopher?
Matthew?
No, Michael.
This was Michael.
Renzo’s cousin.
Unlike my family, and most of the organized crime syndicates I knew of, Renzo’s crew wasn’t entirely built up of blood relatives at the top. He had capos with no blood relation to him. Like Cinna and Rico and, I was pretty sure, Dav.
As you got further down to the soldiers and associates, of course, there was even less blood relation. But that was true of my family as well.
Michael, though, Michael was an actual family member.
And I suddenly felt like maybe I should know more about him than I did.
Renzo had given me details about his childhood. His awful parents, his almost equally terrible uncles. But he’d never specifically mentioned his cousin, even though he’d likely told me about said cousin’s father.
“Hey, Michael,” I said as I fished the lid out of the can of tomatoes I’d just opened, setting it down on the counter, then gathering up the can to drop it into my pot.